Triumph of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [119]
The late Count Devon, who had owned the house prior to Lord Samuels, had been a deeply religious man. In his day, the chapel was filled with light and Life. Upon the Count’s death, the chapel, like the rest of the house, was sealed shut; its lights put out, its furniture draped in black cloth, its beautiful stained glass windows shuttered. When Lord Samuels moved in, he opened the rest of the house to the outside world, but the chapel remained closed and locked. He did not do this out of anger or bitterness over the loss of his beloved daughter. Lord Samuels was not the type of man to shake his fist at the Almin and vow that he “would never speak to You again!” Rather, something within his soul had died. Asked by the servants if he wanted the chapel restored to service, he caught himself answering, “What’s the use?”
And so the chapel remained shut, its ornately carved rosewood doors closed, its windows dark and lifeless. The magical seal laid over the door was an unusually strong one, and it took Father Saryon a considerable amount of mental effort to remove it. Finally succeeding, he made his way inside and collapsed in the nearest pew, unaccustomed to the strain of using so much of his own Life force.
The pews were slick with a fine film of dust. So were the floors. Everything in the chapel was covered with dust, Saryon noted, wondering where it came from. It felt soft to the touch. Holding his small globe of flame close, he saw that it was reddish-colored and sweet smelling. Saryon’s analytical mind instantly began to work, delighted in this bit of irrelevancy to banish the tension. Holding the small globe high, Saryon could barely make out wood beams in the ceiling far above him. These, he deduced, must be magically shaped of cedar. Unlike the rest of the wood in the chapel, the beams remained rough and unpolished, probably to enhance their smell. Hence, the wood dust.
That problem solved, Saryon sighed and reflexively rubbed his tired eyes, instantly regretting that he had done so when he realized from the sudden gritty feeling that he had rubbed wood dust into them. Blinking, he wiped his tearing eyes on his sleeve.
You should be in bed, he told himself. He was exhausted and he knew—recalling past warnings from the Theldara—that he should not tax his strength. But he also knew he could not sleep. He was afraid to sleep. Fear was slowly creeping over him, chilling and immobilizing as the dreadful spell that had been cast upon him, the spell that had changed his flesh to stone. It had all started tonight, with that awful sensation of the Hand laying hold of him, preventing him from telling Joram not to go to the Temple.
It was foolish, dangerous. There was no hope for Gwen. The Necromancers were gone Saryon doubted if they could have helped her anyway. He would have been able to convince Joram of this. His arguments added to Garald’s would have undoubtedly persuaded Joram not to go, not to risk his wife’s life as well as his own in this foolhardy endeavor.
Surely he won’t go! Surely!
Laying his head upon the hand that rested upon the back of the pew in front of him, Saryon shivered in a paroxysm of fear. As he had analyzed the wood dust, he attempted to analyze his fear, seeking its source in order to deal with it on a rational basis. But he could not find it. It was a faceless, nameless terror and the more he concentrated on dragging it to light, the darker it grew. Saryon had lived through many frightening experiences. He could still remember—horribly—the fear he’d experienced when he first felt the numbing blast of the spell hit him and he knew his living body was slowly turning to stone.
But that was nothing—nothing—compared to the fear that gripped him now. He had not experienced this overwhelming sense of loss and despair. No, he recalled, staring into the sweet-smelling, softly lit darkness of the chapel. When the first wave of terror had begun to recede, he had felt imbued with peace and joy.